the dance started when my girl walked up to me, said “put out your hands” and squirted a generous amount of hand sanitizer into my palm.
After making me rub my hands together, she pointed to her bikini bottoms and said “well ok, let’s get to it.” and plunked herself down on my lap.

Now, even if I was a space alien newly arrived from a skank-less galaxy, I would know what she was intending.
She wasn’t going to give me a real dance; she was instead trying to make me pay for the great honor of fingering her.

Sorry, but no.

There was no way in hell I was going to fish around in her honey pot.
It’s just not happening. Not if I only just met you, definitely not for money, and certainly not after turning down the little hottie from O’Farrell who was actually cute.

When she sat on my lap, I placed my hands firmly down by my sides and awaited the dancing.

It never came.

She just sat there.
She never moved. Not a single bit.

I’m being 100% dead honest with you. No exaggerations, this woman sat on my lap, facing away, and didn’t move a single muscle for the entire song.

It was the worst dance I’ve ever gotten in my entire life, and let me tell you, I have had a wide range of dances to compare this to.
Was she just lazy? Did all her previous dances consist entirely of men trying to find her lucky charms?
If she charged me that much with the expectation of me digging around inside her secret compartment, I’m wondering what she kept in there.

Was there a secret prize stashed somewhere inside?

If I searched deep enough, would I find a pirate chest full of gold doubloons?

Jimmy Hoffa’s body?

A lost tribe of pygmies?

Now I’m almost curious. But really, some things are better left unknown.
I looked over at my poor compatriot suffering through the boney-ass lap-pummeling he was receiving from the homely dancer.

I felt no pity, despite his obvious pain and discomfort.

Hey, At least his dancer was moving.

The dance ended, and the girls asked if we wanted another.
Alas, we regretfully declined.

Later, my male friend told me that his dancer had tried to talk him into paying her to go down on me. She wanted him to hand over $500 for the act.
Now first of all, don’t you think she should have consulted me first before offering up my vagina for another person’s amusement?
After all, if I’m to be involved in prostitution for voyeuristic purposes, it’s only polite to ask me first.

Anyway, as it turns out, she also gave him a large list of sexual acts and the prices they would cost. Surprise surprise! The costs were all more then at the O’Farrell, and the goods of a less…ummmm… appealing quality. I have no idea if this menu applied to all the girls, or if this just applied to these two “dancers” in particular.
I spent the rest of the evening making little hats, clown noses, and finger puppets (out of dollar bills) for men in our bachelor party to wear.
I think my first impression of how bored the dancers were was accurate.

once the girls on stage figured out what we were doing, they started exclusively dancing in front of our section. Each new girl that came on stage would try and make a game out of finding new ways to snap up the transformed dollars.

It was kinda fun.

I’d say that the dancers at century ranged from stretch-marked and skanky, to kinda pretty. There was, however, a larger variety of the former.

Our second strip-stop for the night was the century theater.
This choice was made after we stopped off at a little neighborhood martini bar (for a few drops of liquid fortification) and had wailed our plight to another inebriated patron.

“Welllllllllllllll…..” he slurred. “You should head down thata way to the century. It’s cheap!”

That was all we needed to hear. What sort of fools would discard the advice of an old drunkard sipping a blueberry martini? Obviously, our course had been set.

The century theater was a step down from the O’ Ferrell theater. The façade on the outside was scuffed and dirty, the inside hallway was dark.
However, once we got all the way to the main dance area, we realized this was just what we wanted.

Pure, unbridled sleaze. Hurrah!

From the slightly depressed girls gyrating on the stage, to the porn films playing on the TV screens, it was guaranteed to terrify the poor groom-to-be into faithful monogamy.
Giddy as schoolgirls at their first gang bang, we virtually skipped to the V.I.P section and awaited the cascade of dance offers.

We didn’t have to wait long.

The first wave attacked us before we even had a chance to fully seat ourselves.
The groom was whisked off into the dark abyss, not to return for almost 20 minutes.
I was approached by a three-drinks-and-she-might-be-almost-attractive blonde and her homely friend. They both decided that the guy I was sitting next to would be a proper victim, and asked him for a dance.

He turned them down.

Calculating quickly, they decided to sweeten the deal.

“If you get a dance with one of us, we can do a double with HER” they declared, pointing at me.

“Wouldn’t you like to see her getting a dance, while you get one?”

“Why yes! YES HE WOULD.” I stated.

Damn it. I was intent on getting a lap dance. If I had to drag an innocent man into the jaws of death so I could achieve my goal, then so be it.
I and my poor, startled male compatriot were instantly hustled into the back room, and asked to pay.
Now, these “ladies” were crafty. They stood between us so we couldn’t see each other, but they could see the money exchange.

The sign at the entrance said lap dances were $20 each.

My poor fellow victim gave his dancer $40, to pay for both him and me.

I didn’t see him do this, but my dancer did.

Never the less, she then turned to me and said “a dance is $30”.
I paid, (not knowing she was blatantly ripping me off) but thinking “oh well, let’s see if this dance is worth it”.

It wasn’t.

to be continued…

When we first entered the building, our group was greeted by a squinty-eyed old codger who was older than dirt.

Really. I’m not kidding.

I’m betting this guy played the banjo while Nero fiddled.

I was in awe over his appearance, which was somewhere between “classic cave-dwelling hermit” and “western gold rush coalminer”.

He was awesome!

He barked something unintelligible in our general direction that sounded like “murble murble crumbcakes snarf”, and then proceeded to forget we were there.

I looked back at the men to see if they had understood whatever secret military code he was speaking in, but by their blank looks I could see that they hadn’t.

I tried talking to him, but he was locked inside some kind of old-man-meditative-trance.

At that point I did the only thing you can do in that sort of situation:

I poked him with a pen.

It wasn’t quite the same as poking him with a stick, but it did the job.

Suddenly he snapped back to reality, extending a hand and pointing a withered finger in my direction.

“The lady gets in for free.” he solemnly intoned.

Hooray! Who knew childhood tendencies would serve me so well?

I skipped ahead into the club, feeling his myopic glare boring into my back for the entire length of the hall.

It was finally time to see if all the rumors about this club were true.

We all regrouped at the main dance area, and took our time glancing around at this notorious den of iniquity.

Huh.

As it turns out, it was a pretty nice setup. The girls I saw were all attractive, well groomed, with perfect makeup and amazing bodies. The ones I spoke with were also fairly intelligent and had a sense of humor.

I was surprised.

Frankly, I had been told that the O’Farrell theatre was raunchy as hell.

Was my info wrong?

I decided the best way to find out was to get a lap dance.

Looking around, I spotted a gorgeous brunette and asked her for the basic lap dance info.

She smiled at me, licked her lips, and then started quoting positions and prices like some kind of kinky maitre d’.

As it turns out, the girls in this place all do more than just a few “extras”.

In fact, the extras are so common that they take the place of normal strip club activities. If I was so inclined, I could fuck my beautiful brunette for just $300.

For $400, I could fuck her for an hour. The prices worked on a sliding scale, depending on what I wanted to do.

I was… surprised.

Not because of what they were doing, but because of the way they were doing it. there was not even a hint of dancing in that place. The girls walked across the stage like contestants in a Miss America contest.

They didn’t even touch the pole.

As far as I could tell, the O’Farrell theatre was more or less a nice quality brothel.

Beautiful girls, set prices, and private rooms.

We left to go find some places were the girls actually danced, but I considered it an altogether interesting and informative experience.

to be continued…

Recently, I helped plan a bachelor party.

Now, I have seen, attended, and taken blackmail photos of many bachelor parties in the past, but I had never officially been part of one.

The day of the party I was called up, given an “honorary male” status, and invited along for fun and shenanigans. It seems that a number of the guys invited had canceled at the last minute, due to girlfriend/wife/partner disapproval. This made the party pathetically small, and I was tapped to fill the gap.

I told them I would put on a fake moustache for the occasion.

The groom-to-be was a sweet, quiet, mellow guy who plays online role-playing games and paints lead figurines. The best man (my co-conspirator in this little adventure) is a batshit-crazy nuclear scientist from Kentucky who looks like a giant hairy Viking.
I knew from the start that this night would end up as a quirky story about prostitutes.

We started our night of debauchery at a nice restaurant, then had drinks at a local martini bar while we mulled over our choices.

“Would you like to go to an upscale strip club?” I innocently inquired “I happen to know of several”

“We want sleaze!” The boys declared in unison.

“Take us to where old strippers go to die!”

… Hrmmmmm.

Skanky hellholes were a little out of my expert field, but I am always willing to embark on a scientific experiment. I told the group that I’d heard nasty things about the Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell theatre, but had never personally gone.

When I described its history and all the rumors I’d heard, the group instantly agreed that it sounded like a splendid place to start out.

Our mission was set, and off we went.

to be continued…

Ouch!

What the hell? I feel like I was beaten about the legs and back with an angry porcupine.

I’m not positive what is causing this sensation (mostly because my old nemesis Mr. Tequila seems to have sneakily made off with a chunk of short term memories) but I think I have an idea. This weekend, I was at a party where the hosts just happened to have a violet wand.

After a few drinks and several dares, the amazing contraption was pulled out and passed around with…er…electrifying results.

Fortified with alcohol and feeling no pain, I subjected my poor legs and feet to more voltage than I probably should have. This morning I discovered little tiny burns (rather like itty bitty sunburns) all over my calves from the nerve wheel, and all over my arms from the Mylar “whip”.

(Incidentally, I think the funniest thing about getting attacked with a Mylar whip is that the wielder looks like a demented cheerleader. They resemble the pom-poms from a kid’s discount Halloween costume, but with a fairly intense zing and lots of sparks. Good stuff.)

The metal beaded whip wasn’t that interesting for me, but the glass rake and the small glass rod worked out well. I tend to like things with less surface area, so the jolt is more concentrated and intense.

I learned a lesson last night that I will take with me to the grave: DO NOT LICK THE VIOLET WAND. Trust me on that one.

I prefer using my hands as the instrument of zappiness, since I can feel how high the voltage is turned. However, the metal banjo picks my hosts supplied (slipped over the tips of the fingers like claws) kept the intimacy but added a bit more zing.

Hmmm…I think I’ll add this to my birthday list.

I’ll just try and resist the temptation to zap the cats when they misbehave.

So today I went out to lunch with a few of my female friends, and we got into a discussion about kegel muscles.

Various unusual bonuses to having strong kegels were bandied about (tales about pulling in, pushing out, or keeping a deathgrip on your lover’s finger/penis/strap-on, feats of tampon winding, and perfecting your target practice with assorted items) as well as the downsides (the countless deaths of pearl rabbits and other vibrators due to clenching too tightly and burning out the motors).

I love going out with the girls. We may get odd looks from the other patrons when they wander too close and overhear us discussing the strange, girly things we do in private (like using our naughty bits to suck in and shoot out the bathwater like a fountain. extra points for distance!) but I don’t care. Going out with my Viking clan of sexy broads always reminds me that women in general are a freaky bunch, and I am damn glad to be one.

After I rolled myself home to digest and recover, I started thinking about vaginal barbells.

In my post food-coma delirium, I vaguely recalled these strange contraptions being mentioned at lunch, and how we had all seen them in several adult stores. My chief sexy broad (C.S.B for short) had announced that she not only owned one, she owned several in ascending weights. This brought on hushed awe and looks of respect from all of us at the table. C.S.B wasn’t one to mess with. She could kill you with her vagina, and the only way to identify the body would be with dental records. That baby had a kung-fu grip.

I think I may just have to go out and get one of these strange weight sets.

What sort of diet regime do you go on when you are training up your vaginal muscles?

Will I drive my trusty assistants crazy by playing the theme for Rocky while I “work out”?

I’ll keep you posted, my lovely readers.

When I’m done I want to be able to shoot throwing stars and pick pockets with no hands.

It will be my secret ninja weapon.

Ahhhh… whipped cream.
It’s considered an erotic staple by a good majority of the population, and various women’s magazines routinely suggest it as a way to “spice things up in the bedroom”.
However, things rarely work out quite the way they describe in those glossy paged articles.
A typical problem you experience with canned aerosol dairy products is that when it sits for even a moment on hot skin, it melts and begins to slide off.

My first experiments with whipped cream as a teenager left both me and my partner covered in a migratory mess of cream, cherries, and tangled sheets.
(As a side note, and as many of you are probably aware, maraschino cherries do in fact stain the skin.)

After that fiasco, I just started using cool whip.

Sure you have to sacrifice the cool rosettes you can make with the canned variety, but as far as I’m concerned the benefits are worth it.
For starters, it stays where you put it. This is important if your partner is wiggling about, and you care about your sheets.

Also, I like how you can thaw it to room temperature without making it loose form or body. Cold creaminess is wonderful for certain situations, but it’s nice to have the option of comfort.

A while back I discovered cool whip come out with seasonal flavors, and have given a few of them a try in the bedroom. So far, I’d have to say my favorite is chocolate. The French vanilla is nice, and eggnog puts you in the holiday spirit, but the chocolate variety tastes like a whipped chocolate mousse.

A few nights ago it was mentioned to me that alcohol can be added to the whip to give it an interesting kick. I think I may just have to try it out in the name of science, and let you all know the results.